


Looking for Diversions – 33 – At the Carlton George

by CyanideBreathmint



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-16
Updated: 2010-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-12 17:39:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CyanideBreathmint/pseuds/CyanideBreathmint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames and Arthur are on some pre-job downtime in Glasgow and decide to hit up the Craigslist personals for some no-strings attached sex. Except, one of them answers the other's advert… and much embarrassment ensues. PWP with a side of character study.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Looking for Diversions – 33 – At the Carlton George

**Author's Note:**

> Eames' mouth is probably illegal in some states and sovereign nations. Inebriation (without sex), slightly hung-over but consensual sex, character embarrassment. Top!Arthur, frottage, biting, blowjobs, slightly rough sex, come marking, _utter filth_. I have no excuses for this, really.
> 
> This thing is not a part of any of my fic timelines. I just had the weird/funny mental image of the both of them standing on the opposite sides of a hotel room doorway, going, _"You?!"_ in stereo, and that's where this came from. Pre-movie. Thank you to [ilovetakahana](http://ilovetakahana.livejournal.com/) for the wonderful beta.

Arthur was, as a rule, a solitary sort of man, and that had never really bothered him very much. It wasn't as much introversion as much as an unwillingness to stay rooted to one place, or to live up to anyone's expectations of him. Permanent relationships were a risk that very few extractors took; relationships meant commitment, commitment meant complications, and Arthur had already had enough complications to deal with in the form of the recently bereaved Dominic Cobb.

It had been six months since Cobb had fled the United States, four months since he had met up with Arthur in Shanghai, and a little less than that since they had started working together again since the last dreamshare trial they had both participated in, in 2002. Dominic and Mallorie had been married for a little more than a year then and they had still been acting like newlyweds, especially when they thought nobody else was looking.

Arthur had still been Air Force, on medical leave for rehabilitation and physical therapy, the narrow scope of his life still defined by the scarlet beret, the jump wings, the Purple Heart and the crutches. The orthopedic surgeon had been worried that he would never walk normally again, but he had shrugged and ignored the man's gloomy prognosis. He did his exercises every day and concentrated on his range of motion, his joint stability, the promise of sprinting again. The burning ache from exertion was better than watching Mal's cupid-bow lips pressed against Dom's brow.

Her mouth had tasted like Gitanes and gin the first time he had kissed her, but things had not worked out. Not everything in life did, but he was not bitter about it. Cobb and Mal were wildly, deliriously in love and ridiculously happy, and it had been relatively easy to drown his jealousy in the rush of bittersweet joy he had felt for her and for Cobb.

A stray lyric resonated in his memory then. _You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you might find you get what you need._

He wondered if Mal had found what she had wanted in death. He wondered what he would want from death when the time came. Oblivion, perhaps, maybe the promise of rest in an eternal nothingness. Arthur was not a religious man even if his dog tags had said EPISCOPAL. He did not believe in any kind of deity or afterlife.

* * *

Arthur leaned back in his chair in his hotel room, shifting his weight against the slight twinges of pain in his right hip, the ache so old and familiar he barely noticed it now. Cobb was probably drinking alone in his room again, the fragrant memory of Mal held like a hot coal in his fist, making lonely phone calls to a mother-in-law who resented him, and to the children who still asked after their mother sometimes.

Arthur had tried to sit up with him in the past few months; tried to talk him down, but he had spent enough time around Cobb, this new Cobb who nursed his guilt and rage like a bottle of Scotch, to know that it was better to just let him cry it out. Tomorrow they would meet their client and assemble the rest of their team. Tomorrow they would be all business again, which brought him out of his reverie and back into the real world.

He glanced at his laptop monitor again and reviewed the Craigslist personal he had put up last night, read the replies. He had screened out most of the replies; the ones who couldn't spell (although he had no idea why; it wasn't as though he was going to read their writing while they fucked), the ones who included photographs of body parts, and the ones who sounded just plain _creepy._ (This being Craigslist, there were a _lot_ of creepy replies.)

That had left one reply, tersely typed. _I'm 34, about six feet tall, broad, fit, with brown hair and grey eyes. If I'm what you're looking for I can meet you at the bar in the Carlton George at 8PM. I will wear a carnation in my buttonhole._

He had smiled when he had read the reply earlier in the day. The thought of someone wearing a carnation in his lapel in this day and age was droll, old-fashioned, and just a little romantic, and he had replied, _I will see you there at 8. I will be wearing black and a red silk tie._ He reached up and adjusted the knot of his necktie, stood up and put his suit jacket back on, and left his hotel room for the elevator lobby. He caught sight of his own reflection in the elevator doors. Black three-piece suit, black shantung silk shirt, and a vivid splash of red around his neck and down his chest. _Looking good,_ he thought as he punched the button for the first floor.

What he did not know then was that nothing in the world would have prepared him for who he had found waiting at the bar with a carnation in his lapel.

* * *

 _"You,"_ Arthur said. He reached for his Old Fashioned and sipped it for punctuation, and then drained it after a second thought. He had a feeling that this was not going to be a two-drink night.

"Well," Eames said with a nod, as he leaned against the bar, beside Arthur. His distinctive dress was relatively subdued tonight. The red carnation stood out like a fresh bloodstain against the lapel of his pearl-gray suit jacket. "This is a bit awkward, innit?"

"There are more than five hundred thousand people in Glasgow and _you_ have to be the one who answers my ad," Arthur said, putting his empty glass down. The woman bartender took in the look on his face and slid another Old Fashioned across the bar to him without his having to ask.

"It could be serendipity, you know. Oh, Scotch, please. A double. Drop of water," Eames said to the bartender.

"Or you could be stalking me, Mr. Eames." Arthur said. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, brushed an imaginary strand of hair off his brow and massaged his left temple.

"Nothing of the sort. I happen to be in Glasgow for business, have some free time, and decided to check Craigslist for a little no-strings-attached sex, and your advertisement was the only one that did not leave me feeling like I caught herpes off the keyboard." Eames sat down on the barstool next to Arthur's and collected his Scotch with a gracious nod and a wink.

"So you're saying that I have the misfortune of meeting you like this because my advertisement was too classy." He drank half of his second Old Fashioned, and the ice cubes clattered against his teeth before he put the glass back down.

"Perhaps. I was _not_ aware you fancied men, however," Eames said after he had sampled his Scotch. "Does the US military not frown upon this sort of conduct?"

"Well, it's a good thing that I'm working in the private sector now."

"Indeed, which makes me wonder what you're doing in Glasgow. Still working with Cobb?"

"Of course."

"Well, at least one of you has an imagination worth something."

"I would appreciate it if you shut up, Mr. Eames," Arthur said after he finished his cocktail. "I am currently trying to calculate how drunk I have to be to not care that it's you, without being so drunk that I can't give informed consent, and that's a very fine line to tread."

The bartender slid another Old Fashioned across the bar to him then, and he nodded gratefully in her direction as Eames took another sip of his Scotch.

* * *

Arthur nursed his third Old Fashioned, and his fourth, as Eames finished his first glass of Scotch and ordered three more in succession.

"So we're both equally drunk," he had said, "and you won't feel like I'm taking advantage of you." Arthur had been about to point out that the Scotch contained more alcohol by volume than an Old Fashioned when Eames stole the garnish off his cocktail. He pulled the maraschino cherry off the toothpick with his white, slightly uneven teeth.

"That was not fair," Arthur said, after he could think again.

"You never eat the garnishes," Eames said with a sly glance in his direction. "It would be a shame to let it go to waste." He stuck his tongue out, then, and resting on it was the stem of the cherry, tied into an overhand knot.

Arthur shut his eyes and thought of architectural follies and impossibilities as his pulse pounded in his ears. It occurred to him then that the differences in the alcohol contents of their drinks would be offset by the differences in their body weight, which made him feel a little better.

* * *

As it turned out, neither of them got any that night, and Arthur would have been sure it was Eames' fault, except he should have guessed that the differences in their body weight were not adequate to offset the differences in alcohol content in their choice of drinks. That and he was not sure how many drinks Eames had had before coming to the Carlton in the first place, and that was something he should have checked before he wound up with a barely-conscious forger on his hands (or more precisely, lying on the left side of his bed in his hotel room, with the _Do Not Disturb_ sign hanging on the door.)

"Have I ever told you how much I fancy you?" Eames had asked tremulously as Arthur helped him remove his suit jacket and his shoes.

"Five times this evening, and twice during the elevator ride upstairs," Arthur had said as he put Eames' jacket on one of the broad wooden hangers in the wardrobe. He was drunk too, he realized, but his hands were still steady, and he was still sober enough to know that doing anything with Eames was currently a very bad idea. They were both probably too inebriated to give informed consent, anyway.

"Well, I must say it again," Eames had said, his smile broad and beatific and very drunk, "I think you're dead sexy and I want to –"

Arthur had not stayed around to listen to the rest of that sentence. He stepped into the bathroom and filled a glass with water, and when he came back out Eames had fallen asleep. He left the water on the nightstand, beside the pair of aspirin for the hangover he knew Eames would suffer when he woke up tomorrow. He contemplated leaving Eames as he was for a moment, and then sighed as he tucked the sheets and blanket over him. Chances were that Eames was in Glasgow for the same job that Cobb had taken, and Arthur did not want to have to spend a frantic week searching for another forger after Eames caught pneumonia from his negligence.

He watched Eames sleep for a moment, and then finished undressing with his fingers numb from drink, fumbling a little on the buttons of his waistcoat and his shirt. He took a long drink of water and then stepped back into the bathroom for a hot shower. He pondered jacking off in the shower, quick and perfunctory, but he felt somewhat awkward about the idea with Eames sleeping in his bed in this very moment. Eames was still asleep when he stepped out of the bathroom with his wet hair plastered to his scalp. He toweled off and put on a t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants, and when he turned back around from the wardrobe he found that Eames had also rolled over with his arm thrown over the right side of the bed, leaving him no room at all.

* * *

Arthur woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of Eames stumbling to the bathroom. He had a fierce ache in his neck from the uncomfortable armchair he had slept in, and his feet were cold. His cashmere overcoat had been warm enough, but not quite long enough to be an effective blanket substitute. The toilet flushed, and he heard Eames shuffling out of the bathroom. There was a soft rustle of cloth as he peeled off his clothing before collapsing back into bed.

"Arthur?" Eames asked as the mattress groaned under his weight, his voice fuzzy from sleep and residual alcohol, "I'm in your room, aren't I?"

"Yes you are, and no, we did not fuck," he had said before Eames could ask, shifting uncomfortably in the armchair. The knot of scar tissue on his right hip had stiffened up again, and he would probably be _miserable_ tomorrow.

"Well, what are you doing in that chair?" Eames asked, as though the concepts of boundaries were entirely foreign to him.

"Making sure we don't do anything we'll regret tomorrow," Arthur said wearily.

"Come to bed, you _idiot,"_ Eames said, his voice clearer now, less drunk and just drowsy, really.

"Okay," Arthur had said despite his reservations. He got out of the armchair and hobbled over to the bed. It took him a few painful moments to climb onto the right side, beside Eames. This felt wrong. He hated sleeping on the right side of the bed, and he was aware of Eames' weight on the other side, displacing the mattress, and the sound of his breathing and the warmth of his skin under the sheets.

"Goodnight, darling," Eames said, his voice drifting over from the vicinity of the pillow on the left side of the bed.

"Go to sleep, Mr. Eames," Arthur said, rolling over onto his side to relieve the fierce ache throbbing in his right hip. He found his face inches away from the nape of Eames' neck, and he fell asleep listening to Eames' breathing, the movement of his flank slow and steady under the palm of his hand.

* * *

Arthur woke up with a dry mouth and a slight headache, one so faint that it was probably the most pitiful hangover he had ever had. He also realized, as he drifted closer to wakefulness, that he had the _worst_ case of morning wood, and that was counting the years of being a hormonal teenager. Eames' arm was tucked around his chest; a slow heartbeat booming against his back as they lay spooned against each other, deliciously warm. The rhythm of Eames' breathing suggested that he was awake, and Arthur felt the tip of a nose, a pair of lips bumping against the back of his head as he shifted in bed.

"Good morning, Arthur," Eames murmured softly, his breath ruffling the fine strands of Arthur's hair.

"You're not very hung-over, I see," Arthur said, and then he gasped, softly, as Eames snuggled up against him, pressing the firm heat of his cock and balls against the small of his back, the contact frustrating through the silk of Eames' boxers and the soft flannel of his drawstring pants. They rocked against each other like this for a few minutes, Eames' breathing growing quicker, and then his right hand slid beneath the waistband of Arthur's pajama pants, brushed gently against his cock and then tugged the hem of his t-shirt upwards.

"Your heart just started racing, darling," Eames whispered as he let go of Arthur's shirt. "If this is a bad time for this I could just get up and have a wank in the shower."

"No, no this isn't – Stay here," he had said before his brain gave up on language altogether, a faint _whoosh_ in his ears and along his nerve endings like the ring of flame on a gas range when the pilot light came on.

He rolled over in bed to face Eames, planting soft, light kisses on the curve of his jaw, the stubble on his cheeks, the faded scar on his chin. _Fuck this headache and fuck morning breath,_ he managed to think, his whole body taut and thrumming with arousal.

 _"Oh,"_ Eames had managed to gasp when Arthur pulled away from the kiss and rolled him over on his back, shrugging the sheets and blankets off as he did so. He was kneeling, half-straddling Eames as he pulled his cotton t-shirt up and over his head. There was a soft scratch of stubble against his belly, a hot, open mouth and a wet velvety tongue brushing over the soft spot beneath his sternum as he threw the shirt onto the carpeted floor. Sharp teeth grazed his left nipple and he let his head fall back, his neck bared as a broad hand crept up the back of his thigh, along the cleft of his ass, stroking him gently through the soft flannel of his pants.

Eames tucked a thumb under the waistband of Arthur's pajama pants and tugged them down. They snagged frustratingly on his erection, the friction of the fabric infuriating, maddening, and then he reached down with both his own hands and helped Eames tug the waistband down over his hips.

"God, darling," Eames whispered, his breath hot against Arthur's chest as he continued nibbling at his skin, tonguing the sensitive bump of his nipple, and Arthur rubbed the sensitive underside of his cock against Eames' belly, his fingers tangling in his hair, hair stiff with pomade and damp with sweat. He shifted his own weight a little to give Eames access to his neck and shoulders and as he did so Eames rocked his hips upward, pressing his own erection into the curve of Arthur's hip. Gentle fingers brushed over his hipbones and he felt Eames pause in his ministrations as he discovered the ugly knot of scarring right over the point where the head of Arthur's femur joined the acetabulum.

"Shrapnel. Shahi-Kot Valley." Arthur whispered as Eames pulled away to look at the scar. He straightened, rising up on his knees so Eames could get a better look.

"I remember when we first met. You could barely walk then," Eames murmured. He hunched his shoulders, dropped his head and pressed his mouth to the scar, his lips hot and slippery, gentle against the tender skin.

"The miracles of microsurgery, huh," Arthur managed to gasp in the wake of white-hot bliss as Eames licked a wet stripe down the underside of his cock, his plush lips brushing against the head. Eames' tongue swirled slowly, _maddeningly_ around the exquisite sensitivity of his glans, the slit of his meatus, and he growled and clawed at Eames' tattooed shoulders, at the back of his neck, his hips bucking as he fucked that infuriating mouth on instinct. He could feel Eames' sharp teeth scratching very softly against the shaft of his cock with each thrust in contrast to the silken softness and heat of his tongue.

Arthur retained enough presence of mind to pull away before he got too close, and Eames stared up at him, vaguely disappointed. "I don't want to come until I've fucked you," he whispered as he pushed Eames back down onto the bed. "I want to come all over you, lick it off your ink."

"Do you know how fucking sexy you are when you take charge like this?" Eames asked, as he settled back into the pillow and let Arthur tug his boxers off in a whisper of silk against skin. He reached down to stroke his own cock, his hand moving slowly and easily as he took his time.

"That's what I'm counting on," Arthur said with his wickedest grin, as he kicked off the flannel pajama pants and reached into the drawer on the left-side nightstand for the condoms and lubricant. "I'm going to fuck you senseless," he promised as he tore the little foil packet open and unrolled the thin latex over his aching, spit-slick cock. Eames' eyes had glittered with arousal and anticipation at the sight, and he drew his knees up to expose the pink bud of his asshole. Arthur had always liked fucking bigger men, liked watching them gasp and moan and beg while he held them down, and his hands trembled slightly as he ran a lube-slick finger up the crack of Eames' ass.

Eames shuddered, hissing softly as Arthur slid his callused finger slowly past the ring of his asshole and brushed a fingertip gently against the bump of his prostate. "Hurry up," he had groaned, and Arthur smiled at the hoarseness of his voice, the _desperation_ in that order. He pulled his hand away, squeezed more lubricant onto his fingers, and then finished lubing and spreading Eames open.

"Oh, fuck _yes,"_ Arthur whispered as he pushed back on Eames' knees and eased his cock into him, his first thrust a shallow one, and then deeper as Eames wrapped his legs around Arthur's narrow waist and pulled him in. "Yes, this is it."

The muscular ring of Eames' asshole was tight, perfect, and then beyond that was soft slick heat like sodden velvet against his sheathed cock. Eames reached down to stroke his own cock again, and Arthur batted his hand aside, held him down by the wrists as they fucked, slowly at first and then harder, more _urgent,_ Eames' pulse pounding against the palms of his hands.

 _"Please,_ Arthur," Eames begged hoarsely, his cock bobbing with each thrust, "let me –" but Arthur cut him off with a cruel grin.

"You'll come when I want you to, Mr. Eames," Arthur panted, and then hissed with delight as Eames had shuddered in response to his last, deep thrust, tensing deliciously around him. He paced himself; slowing when he got too close, too fast and Eames had moaned and writhed around his cock, passive in his ravishment. The sight itself had almost driven Arthur over the edge, and he shut his eyes and concentrated on lasting in the bloodwarm dark behind his eyes, on drawing the pleasure out for a few more moments.

Arthur pulled out when he got close to orgasm and let go of Eames' wrists, tugged the condom off and stroked himself fast and hard. He was so close that it didn't take long at all, and vision dissolved into a starburst of static as he came. His blood hissed in his ears as he arched his back and spent himself over Eames' belly and chest, creamy, pearlescent droplets of come standing out against the ink of his tattoos and his tanned skin. He took a few seconds to catch his breath, and then bent his face to Eames' chest and licked him clean. The salty, chlorine-tinged flavor of his own spunk mingled with the sharp notes of sweat, and Eames had gasped and begged, guiding his head lower as he let his open mouth slide down the muscles of his chest and his hard, flat stomach.

Eames pulled hard at Arthur's hair as his mouth crept lower, nearer to the damp tangle of his pubic hair, the thick shaft of his cock, and Arthur had nipped him hard on the hip, hard enough to bruise. Eames grunted softly, and Arthur did not give him the time to recover, simply took his cock into his mouth and smiled inwardly at the shocked gasp and moan. Eames' cock fit so well in his mouth, the sweet taste of pre-ejaculate mingling with the flavor of his own come. He took a deep breath, suppressed his gag reflex, and relaxed his jaw as Eames thrust hard into him, the head of Eames' cock slipping past his tonsils with a soft click.

Arthur let Eames fuck his throat, then, his thick fingers laced into his hair. Eames bucked upward, gasping, sobbing, almost, as Arthur buried his face in the sweat-fragrant thicket of his pubic hair and ran a thumb gently along the crest of his hip.

"I'm coming, I'm going to come in your mouth, darling," Eames had whispered desperately, and then there was a sound like a sob and a moan as he shuddered and went very still. Arthur swallowed again and again, Eames' cock and balls twitching against his lips, his tongue, and the roof of his mouth. He continued suckling gently until Eames' cock softened in his mouth, and then he pulled away and collapsed in bed beside him.

"God, Arthur," Eames murmured at last, "that is one bloody effective hangover cure." His eyes slid shut, and sweat ran from his temples into his hair.

"Yeah, well, if you tell Cobb about this _I will set you on fire_ the next time we're in a shared dream," Arthur said heatlessly. He reached across the bed and placed his hand on Eames' belly, feeling the rise and fall of his diaphragm with each breath.

"My lips are sealed," Eames said. He reached up and put his hand over Arthur's, but Arthur did not pull away. They simply lay exhausted and silent over the damp, rumpled sheets; the only sounds around them the pulse in their ears and their hoarse breathing.


End file.
